


Ryder's Song

by commander_killjoy



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Drinking to Cope, Drunk!Ryder, Emotionally Repressed Ryder, Female Ryder | Sara & Reyes Vidal Friendship, If you want - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Other, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unnamed Female Ryder, pre-Ryder/Reyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 18:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12870207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commander_killjoy/pseuds/commander_killjoy
Summary: Here, this place, reeking of vomit and alcohol and sulfur, this is the only place Pathfinder Ryder feels like a person anymore.





	Ryder's Song

**Author's Note:**

> The idea was "Sara doesn't want to go back to her room on the Tempest because it reminds her of her dad" and then this happened.

She loves it here.  Despite the air being stale and reeking of unwashed outlaws; despite the ever-heavy eyes of Sloane’s goons watching her every move; despite the constant grumbling from her crew as they’re forced to spend another unscheduled night on Kadara after each draining mission.

Drack is the only one who never says a word, and at first, she thinks it’s because he likes it here almost as much as she does.  It’s not until months later she learns he’s kept his mouth shut mostly for her sake.  He sees what she tries so hard to hide; sees it and makes sure to keep an eye on her

She loves Kadara as a whole.  Loves that there’s always a fight to pick when she’s too pissed to see straight, when she’s overwhelmed and the only outlet she has is to let her biotics loose on some poor saps camped out in the Badlands.  She loves that the people here are as rough and ragged on the outside as they are on the inside; there’s no pretty polished veneer on any of them.  They are who they are, unapologetic and unwavering.  Their politics is a game she can understand, a game she doesn’t mind playing.  She even loves Sloane, in a way.  Loves how easy it is to push the woman’s buttons, all the while knowing there’s nothing the Outcast leader can do about her.

But she loves Kralla’s Song the most.  Loves that Umi doesn’t pull any punches in the drinks she mixes her.  Some have her on her ass and blacked out before she finishes them, some roll her stomach a little too much.  But most of the time Umi keeps her on the fine, happy line between stupid drunk and blissfully numb.  Umi, for as gruff and hard as the asari is, sees the same thing Drack does, and does her part to watch over the young Pathfinder.

It’s in the way her muscles finally relax, the way her shoulders and posture sag just enough to be casual.  Enough to show that all the weight on her young, inexperienced shoulders is lifted for a little while.  It’s in the way her smile turns bright and warm instead tight and forced.  The way her eyes gleam in the dim lighting – all the wide-eyed, childlike curiosity she’s lost over these past months returning for a least a few hours.

Even as she babbles on about her disappointment that the color purple doesn’t taste like grape candies, even as she pitches forward too far and wobbles when she tries to stand, her older friends can see it.  The others would, too, Drack thinks, if they’d just pay attention to _her_ while they’re here rather than their own hatred of the place.

They’d all see that _here_ , this place, reeking of vomit and alcohol and sulfur, this is the only place Pathfinder Ryder feels like a _person_ anymore. 

Drunk and watched over by Drack and Umi, Ryder can laugh and joke and play and forget for a while that there are tens of thousands of people counting on her.  She can forget about all the lives she’s taken, the people they’ve already lost.  She can shrug her father’s leather jacket from her shoulders and stop trying to fill his shoes; she can stop picturing his face as she’d watched him die.  She can forget that her brother had almost died; she can forget how many times _she’s_ died.  She can be _normal_ , be a twenty-two-year-old and dance and _be happy_.

She doesn’t do this often, she’s not reliant of the liquor Umi keeps pouring – a special mix that she’d concocted specially for the woman perched on the barstool in front of her cracking wise to the guy next to her.  But this _is_ a respite she needs, and it’s worrying to those that play guardian.  This is the only time she allows herself any sort of feeling, any kind of openness, when she’s drunk and half-falling off her stool and marveling at the various shades of blue in asari skin and asking if Umi will just adopt her.

“It’s not like I have a family anymore, anyway.”

Umi slides another drink to her, timing the glasses she gives to the ups and downs of Ryder's buzz.

“It’s not like I haven’t already.”

It’s not a response seems to hear, or one she’s processed, but that’s okay.  She won’t remember any of this mess in the morning, anyway.  She never does.  She never remembers much of anything past the first drink other than the feeling of wholeness that’s gone when she wakes up.  And she certainly never remembers that Drack always ends up carrying her back to the ship while she nuzzles herself into his uncomfortably hard armor and mutters incoherent stutters that nothing she does will ever matter, that she’ll never find her home out here all alone.

She never remembers him shushing her, petting her hair, and reminding her that she isn’t as alone as she thinks.

There’s a hand on her shoulder, steadying her as she sways in her wild swing around to face its owner.  Amber eyes seem surprised to find the sweet smile playing across her lips – and why shouldn’t he be?  It isn’t as if an unburdened Ryder is a common sight these days.  But, here, drunk off her ass and stumbling into the taller human as she tries to greet him, she is _free_.

His name is somewhere between an excited holler and relieved sigh, an odd but endearing combination that has the man eying both Drack and Umi.

Perceptive little shit; the krogan will give him that.

In less than a minute, Vidal has figured out more than the majority of her crew has in _months_.  He knows, too, now.  This little secret kept between her krogan and asari guardians.  She’s vulnerable like this – dangerously so, with her guard low and her faith returning with the alcohol – and if Drack moves to stand a little straighter as he holds the smuggler’s amber gaze, no one dares blame him.

The arm Reyes brings around her shoulders is protective.  Warm and steady and safe.  Sitting her back onto her stool proves more difficult than it should be, with her angling more for his lap than the metal seat, but he manages easily enough – then pulls the stool flush with his own to keep her close.  Shoulder to shoulder, she faces Umi and he outward, warily watching the rest of the bar, and it seems that, at least for tonight, Ryder’s gained another sentinel.

She yammers on a while longer, and Reyes actually tries to keep up with her half-coherent ramblings, even offering his own insights.  Her face is red, and she makes a comment about her face being sore from the laughter he’s bringing her.  There’s something _soft_ in his eyes as he watches her watch him.  Something fond and gentle in the smile tugging the corner of his lips.  Something that Drack doesn’t entirely approve of, but if there’s anything he’s sure about when it comes to Reyes Vidal, it’s that the man will protect Ryder as fiercely as the krogan himself would.

So, when she yawns and stretches out and starts to settle into the bar as if to fall asleep, and Reyes ushers her to standing with a promise to take her back to her ship, Drack nods and lets him.

She stops at the transport terminal, clutches her companion’s arm like a lifeline, eyes suddenly wide and tired and glassy.

“ _I don’t want to go back there_ ,” it’s a whisper, a puffed breath of her custom mixed drink, a mumble against his shoulder as she pulls back on his arm and staunchly refuses to go any further.  “It’s not supposed to be my room.”  She flinches back, her giddiness bleeding into raw emotion instead.

Reyes wonders if she does this every time.

“Come on,” he urges her away from the terminal, tucked up against his side as they make their way through the port.  She’s snuggled up close, and she’s drunk enough that he doesn’t have to pretend it’s just to keep her from stumbling.  She wouldn’t notice the lie if he did, but she won’t remember the truth, either.

She slurs about where they’re going, pointing out neon signs and various shops – all of which he’s more familiar with than she is, but he indulges her.  Somewhere he gets word to both her and her crew that he’s bringing her drunk and upset self back to his, but not to worry.

“Perfect gentleman, remember?”

And with a bark of infectious laughter, bright and loud and _happy_ , she’s nearly dropped herself to the ground.  He’s grinning as he picks her back up and leads her into his small apartment, glad to have brought her out of her emotional pit again.

It’s only the one room and a bathroom, a cramped bed and a rather pathetic kitchenette, but she doesn’t seem to mind.  She’s wandering the small space, looking over his few personal belongings and commenting on _all of them_.

“I love it.”

A declaration clear as a bell, and he has to shake his head at her.  Even as he settles her into sitting on the edge of the bed so he can get her somewhat ready for sleep.

She doesn’t sober even slightly with the water he gives her – a quick, quiet conversation will SAM confirms she’ll have a healthy dose of pain meds introduced into her system _before_ the hangover can kick in.  He’s about to ask her if she wants to borrow a shirt, when he turns to find her stripped down to a practical sports bra and plain underwear and curled up atop the thin blanket thrown over his bed.  Already half asleep and still mumbling to him, even as her face presses into his pillow.  Something about smelling nice and stealing his pillow.

He covers her body with the blanket and her temple with a kiss.

He just hopes – prays, even, as he settles himself for a long night on the floor – that one day, one day _soon_ , she’ll be that happy again sober.


End file.
